


Four Times Saturday Objected To Interference With The Secondary Realms (And One Time She Just Gave Up)

by gloriousmonsters



Category: Keys to the Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloriousmonsters/pseuds/gloriousmonsters
Summary: As the House changes, one of the Secondary Realms does too, and its importance grows.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caterin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caterin/gifts).



> Argh, this fic took FOREVER to come together. I know you mentioned you were interested in the work the Trustees did, and I tried to put some of that into the fic, but the focus wound up skewing a little more toward shenanigans with the Secondary Realms (ft. Saturday growing increasingly pissed off). This also wound up a little more humorous than I meant it to be, although true to form things get dark right at the end.  
> I hope this fulfills at least some of your hopes! Thank you for the chance to write about the Trustees, too, I love them terribly. :D  
> Also, I tried to keep things mostly canon-compliant, but a couple small headcanons leaked in - primarily it always bugged me that everyone was Lord and Lady so-and-so. So I took the liberty of using my usual titles for the Days when needed: Master/Mister Monday, Foreman Tuesday, Admiral Wednesday, Sir Thursday, Minister Saturday. Friday and Sunday get to be the Lord and Lady.

“And finally, under the new rule the Architect has established,” Saturday said, “(5861b: No interference in the Secondary Realms) we have a few instances to discuss.” She set down her scroll and turned to Monday. “For instance: I believe moving a large amount of beings from Secondary Realm 290 counts as ‘interference’—”

“The wording is unclear,” Monday pointed out. “What does interference mean, exactly, in this case? Personal belief is irrelevant; the Days must reach an agreement unless we receive further clarification from the Architect.”

“Master Monday,” Saturday said, “I think we shall probably agree that, as the creatures would have soon died out if you had not brought them to the House—”

“What did you want them for anyway?” Tuesday asked.

***

The records of 290 had barely filled a shelf, despite the Architect’s pride in that particular area of the Secondary Realms. Two lower-level Denizens had been assigned to it since creation, and recorded the histories of any notable single-cell organisms they found faithfully. Monday had thought of it little, save for his confusion over the Architect putting so much time into a ball of earth covered in a sort of messy biological soup, instead of the complex worlds she usually enjoyed, until one evening his Dusk brought him a message.

“Lael and Zohar requested a review of their assigned Realm.”

Monday glanced up from the stack of queries he was answering. “And did their immediate superior perform the review?”

“She began to, but felt unable to understand what she was seeing. It went up to her superior, and finally found its way to me. They thought I might help, with my knowledge of magic.”

“Knowledge of—” Monday frowned, finally setting down his pen. Dusk was almost trembling with suppressed excitement; he was having trouble understanding why. “Dusk, Lael and Zohar oversee Realm 290, correct? It has no magic, or intelligent life capable of such.”

“Yes, sir. However, they were right in their confusion; 290 has undergone some… changes.”

“Changes?”

“I think it would be better for you to see,” Dusk said, “rather than I attempt to explain.”

 

 

Realm 290 was hotter than he recalled, and greener. Monday stepped out of thin air onto springy, wet ground and the two Denizens standing nearby jumped, looking ready to run at the slight sound it made, before relaxing when they saw him. The next moment they recognized him, and Lael turned pale and bowed so deeply she nearly fell over while Zohar began stammering.

“Master Monday, it is an honor—”

“Enough,” Monday said gently. “My Dusk informs me this world has undergone some changes. Where might I see them?”

Zohar pointed wordlessly at the pool nearby. Monday looked, then looked again as a soft blur of brown he’d interpreted as part of the background suddenly moved. It was lizard-like, bird-like, with bright eyes in a head it turned sideways to look at him, and clawed feet that sunk deep into the mossy ground as it sidled towards the trees.

“Where did that come from?” Monday asked, unable to keep a note of delight out of his voice. He was rarely surprised at anything, and the experience was quite refreshing.

“The little creatures in the water, sir,” Lael said, stuttering just a bit. “We almost didn’t notice at first. Although we did, because we were recording everything! They got bigger, and more complex, and then some of them started to crawl out of the water, and for a while we thought it might be a normal part of their life-cycle, but then they got even bigger—”

She broke off as she realized her Day did not seem to be listening, choosing instead to reach a hand towards the creature and command, “Come here.”

It was not the Architect’s language, but the words still held power. The creature paused, cocked its head to the side, and sidled back towards Monday, finally stopping within a foot or two. “It’s very tall,” Monday observed, tipping his head back. “Beautiful, in a strange way.”

“It’s large, but it’s not the largest, sir.”

Monday shot her a bemused look. “There are larger ones?”

She pointed up.

***

 

“You grew too attached to them.” Saturday tapped her Key on a scroll. “Which is a clear violation of edict 56, and we all know why edict 56 exists—”

Monday’s eyes had been lowered as he reflected, but now he looked up and smiled. “I must object, Minister Saturday. I collected them as part of the Lower House’s duties to record and preserve knowledge of the Secondary Realms.”

Saturday narrowed her eyes. “You’re supposed to write about it, Master Monday, not collect two of every animal.”

“I only collected three aquatic samples and twelve feathered. Regardless: 290 is not like other Realms, where one race tends to exist start-to-finish unless utterly destroyed by some disaster. The beings on it change, which I have documented in writing, but I thought it prudent to collect a few samples of what the race resembled before the great changes they surely will undergo—as a result of the difference in climate and habitat.”

Saturday tapped her Key faster. There might be no lasting harm in letting Monday keep the beasts, but she didn’t like the idea. Some part of her felt sure that even if the Architect barely appeared in the House, She was always watching; judging Saturday’s performance. As Her first creation, Saturday did not want to disappoint her, even in a small way. “I request proof of 290’s nature,” she said, “demonstrating that your action was justified.”

Friday groaned, dropping her head onto her hand. Being Friday, she did it dramatically, and could have easily been painted by a master artist at any point in the gesture. “Saturday, dearest, must we delay the meeting so? You know Monday’s going to have it recorded perfectly.”

Monday, who had already signaled his Noon, smiled and dropped his eyes in a show of modesty at the compliment.

“And if he wants to keep a few giant lizards, why not let him?” Tuesday said. Saturday redirected her glare from Monday to him; Tuesday was, in her opinion, not nearly reverent enough of the Architect’s authority and the sanctity of borders between the Secondary Realms and their House.

“While there of course is no danger in it, Foreman Tuesday,” Monday said softly, “I would not have kept them for any frivolous reason—”

“Which is why you’ve put them in a decorative park outside one of your offices,” Saturday muttered.

“—I am, as always, completing my duty. Minister Saturday, I do not wish to hold up the meeting, so—” Monday slid a paper out of his sleeve, wrote a few words on it, and folded it into a bird that shook itself and fluttered out of his hands into the air. “I shall reroute the information you requested to your office. Expect it by tomorrow; we shall have to copy everything, and pack the soil and water samples so they are not damaged. You may peruse everything at your leisure, as long as it is returned to the archives by the end of this week.”

“Perhaps that will not be necessary,” Saturday said, visions of her already overloaded desk flitting through her head.

Monday’s smile was too-perfectly innocent. “I insist.”

Sighing, Saturday let it go and turned to the next item of the meeting. _Strange,_ was her last thought on the matter. _The Architect has never created a world that’s changed before. At least there are only lizards, and they don’t seem very intelligent._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 more like 'tuesday yells about art for twice as long as the three other Days in this fic got put together'

“Foreman Tuesday, kindly explain your interference in Secondary Realm 290.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tuesday said, his expression unchanging. His expression never changed much—he always looked sour, hence the nickname of ‘Grim Tuesday’ that had been cropping up among the Denizens lately—but there was a specific kind of stillness that meant he was lying through his teeth.

Saturday glanced at the two Denizens she’d assigned to the evidence, and the hauled forward a large chunk of stone and set it on the end of the table. The whole thing creaked. “I think we all know what this means.”

Everyone studied the artwork on the stone. “How sweet,” Friday said. “They’re developing culture. Are they doing anything worth note in fashion yet?”

“No, just leather strips and artfully arranged leaves.” Monday steepled his fingers. “The picture does seem… familiar.” 

“It’s a depiction of a smith,” Tuesday said flatly. “Which could indicate any smith.”

“Except,” Saturday said, smiling tightly, “the new race of 290 has no metalworking skills as of yet. They’ve barely discovered fire—actually, we’re not sure where they got fire…” She leveled a suspicious glare around the table, and received several shrugs in return and one deeply indignant look from Thursday. “Regardless, they were placing offerings of primitive art and craft beneath this stone, and praying to a kind of smith-god. Which might sound familiar because it resembles the religion 105 developed after Tuesday stole several of their greatest accomplishments in artwork—”

“I did not steal it,” Tuesday said, his brows knitting. “You would do well to watch your tongue, Minister. I traded for it.”

“With what?”

“Shells. Their form of currency.”

A look of enlightenment passed over Wednesday’s face. “So that’s why you wanted shells,” she said in an undertone.

“And did you trade for art on 290?” Saturday drummed her fingers on the top of the stone. “Or did you merely impress on those poor creatures that they could get protection from the cold and famine by offering you finger-paintings? If I looked in your treasure-house, would I find paintings such as this one?”

Tuesday folded his arms. “It was a gift.”

 

***

 

The girl, hunched over her paints, did not notice Him at first. She was thinking about color; about the subtle difference between bone-black and fire-black, how the bone-black had a quality to it that made it worth the extra difficulty to create. She was thinking about how cold the nights were, and how good it was that fire kept the chill away—that the mysterious tall figure, which she wished she had seen, had brought it to them. Then it occurred to her the light from her torch was interrupted, and she looked up to find a man standing over her. 

“Hello,” he said. She understood him; not in her head or ears, but in her bones. He was not a man at all, she realized; he was too tall, taller than the tallest man in her camp. His head almost touched the cave roof. Fear dried her throat and prevented her from answering, but she could not stop looking at him. Was this the stranger that had brought them fire? Her brother had said he had long hair. This—being had short black hair, and his skin was dusted with soot. Similar to hers, after a long days burning and crushing bones and charcoal. 

“Did you know,” the being said, “you are the first artist on this small, remarkably cold world? That would make your work a novelty, if nothing else. But it is quite good, considering your limitations.” He stooped close to one of the pictures on the wall, her memory of a hunt over a year ago. “I should like to have this.”

It was part of the cave wall. How would he take it? She did her best to swallow, and said, “Why.” It was the first thing that came to mind.

“I collect beauty,” the being said. “It is the most valuable thing in the world.”

She stared, uncomprehending. 

“Will you give me your picture? It will be far less troublesome for everyone concerned if you agree.”

“I do not understand,” she whispered. “It is worth…” It was worth a great deal to her, but nothing to the world. Some of her family liked to come look at the pictures, but many of the elders chided her for spending her time on something that could not feed or warm them. “It is not worth anything.”

The being sighed. “If your kind is changing as rapidly as Monday claims, I hope we soon reach a day you understand currency. It makes things easier. As it is…” He seemed to reflect for a moment, eyes narrowed, then put his hands against the wall. He wore gloves of some strange silver material that made her eyes hurt where the firelight glanced off them. Open-mouthed, the girl watched as he dug his fingertips into the stone, then sank his hands in to the wrist, and with a heave pulled out the whole section of rock bearing her drawing. Behind it, instead of earth, a tall doorway full of fiery light gaped. 

“I want to show you something,” the being said, and holding the section of wall as if it were as light as a seed he walked into the doorway. Too numb to do anything but obey, the girl followed him. 

The area they stepped into was vast, vast enough to make the broad walkway they crossed look like a thin black thread over a wide river in comparison to the space it bridged. A din of clanging and shouting filled the air, and before the girl had taken a dozen steps into the room another being touched her arm. She screamed and jumped, and the being recoiled as well; almost as tall as the first one, but clad in brighter colors, with clouded eyes. 

“Foreman,” it said the the being she followed, “what is this?”

“A human artist. I am making a negotiation, Noon, hold all messages for the next quarter-hour.”

“Yes, Foreman.” The bright-colored being stepped back, and bird-wings burst out from his back like water from a spring. In a moment he was gone, and the girl was jogging to

keep up to the first being’s long strides. She did not think she could bear anything more strange, and the doorway to her own world was already a speck in the distance.

“See that glow in the distance?” the being asked, pointing. “Those are my forges. They continue for a few miles. More are being built every day.”

She did not know the word _forges_ , but she understood the general meaning. She had pictures in her head, somehow, of this being working at one. 

“Above our heads,” the being continued, “is a House. You don’t know what that means yet. It is a dwelling larger than the planet you live on. I doubt you can comprehend that either. It is the largest thing you can possibly imagine; filled with people; and I provide to them almost every thing they need.”

They passed deep wells where buckets were being drawn to the surface, full of shining black liquid that seemed to writhe. “I give them parts for their new buildings, as the House expands every day,” the being said. “I draw Nothing up to the surface and I make it into Something. Wood; iron; silver; stone, ordinary and specialty. Paints, more sophisticated than the ones you use. Not-Horses to ride upon, or to draw carts. Carts for the horses. The goods that fill the carts.”

They had reached another tall door, black and silver, with no handle. The being reached for the crack at the bottom with his free hand, and lifted it open. She could not imagine how heavy it was, how strong the being must be. It sent a shudder through her to hear the door shut behind them, but the quieting of the din outside helped clear her mind. 

The round room they stood in was lined, along the walls, with color. More color than her own earth-colors, from charcoal and ocher and bone: there was blue like the sky, deep green like the grass, a lilac unlike anything but a color she’d glimpsed now and then at sunset. From squares of fabric finer than leather, and stone much like her own canvas, color glowed back at her no matter where she turned.

“I am the foundation the House rests on,” the being said. Not boasting; simple, a statement of fact. “I make what is needed and the need never ceases. You likely know a thing or two about need. What do you think I do, when I have a moment free of work?”

She lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. 

“I come here, where I have collected art. I create art of my own.” There was an odd quality to his voice for a moment, but whatever caused it he seemed to shake off. “Because art is not demanded in the same way other things are. Needed things never change, and do not delight. They fulfill a purpose, and that is noble. That it the way of the House. But art…” He set down the stone he had carried, and it shook the floor. “Art delights. We need it not, but somehow it feels as if it is needed more than all those things we make to survive. It is a great puzzle.”

It dawned upon her, that he wanted her paintings. Among all these beautiful things, he wanted her earth-colored work. She did not know whether to protest that she was not good enough, or be overjoyed at the knowledge; she did her best to choose the latter. Straightening her back, she nodded to show she understood at least a little. 

“Take the picture,” she said. “I… will make more.”

The being smiled, sudden and strange on his grim face. “Good,” he said. “Noon will see you out. Make sure you are not the last artist as well as the first on your world; your potential is fascinating.”

When she turned her head the blind winged being from the bridge stood at her elbow, and with a smile led her out through another door. She glanced back once, and saw the being kneeling in front of her picture with a frown; his fingers moving in the air above it, as if tracing and memorizing the lines.

  
***

  
“You just asked and she gave it to you?”

Tuesday did not blink. “Yes.”

“You did nothing to persuade her?”

Tuesday frowned. “Are you suggesting I threatened her?”

Saturday indicated the religious painting. “You certainly made an impression. How does she know what a forge looks like?”

“I have no idea.”

Saturday gritted her teeth. “I shall have to write a complaint,” she finally said, hoping for a reaction. Tuesday frowned slightly, but was not anywhere near as cowed as she would hope. Perhaps the other Days were beginning to realize that her complaints to the Architect were going ignored. 

“Do as you please. I shall be more careful in the future.” More careful not to get caught, he likely meant. Tuesday was incapable of staying away from the art of the Secondary Realms; it held a strange fascination for him. “Now, shall we move on to more important things?”


	3. Chapter 3

“It was completely accidental,” Wednesday said.

Saturday paused in the middle of writing a memorandum to the second-rank tier of sorcerers in the Upper House. “What was?”

Wednesday closed the door behind her and slid into one of the chairs. It wasn’t the first time she had come to see Saturday, although more often she tried to coax Saturday out to the beaches of the Border Sea to ‘take in the sun’ (Saturday’s reasonable arguments that her office got more sun, being higher in the House and closer to the Incomparable Gardens, had no effect on her). It wasn’t often that she looked so nervous and apologetic. Saturday’s confusion turned to foreboding.

“I was tending to the edges of the Border Sea closest to Secondary Realm 290,” Wednesday said. “And—”

“290—again?” Saturday dropped her pen. “There are other intelligent races in the Realms, what is it about humans that makes everyone in the House want to disturb their development?”

“It was an accident,” Wednesday repeated. “There was this tiny, ridiculous boat—”

***

 

The human in the coracle was making tiny squeaking noises. Wednesday had a hard time telling whether it was excitement or small, stifled screams of terror. Judging that this was likely the first time the human had been picked up out of the water by a woman as tall as a small mountain, Wednesday guessed at the latter. She could have decreased her size and used the Key to pick them up with water alone, but she often assumed a larger form to mend the borders of the sea—it helped cover more ground in less time—and the human really seemed in danger of drowning. 

“Maybe I should have let it drown?” Wednesday inquired of her Dawn, who had flown up to perch on her shoulder and was shedding her half-shark form. “I mean, it’s probably not supposed to see this. But I would have felt bad about it. Look at how small this boat is.”

Dawn eyed the skin-and-bone contraption the human sat in. “That’s a boat?”

“You had a close call there!” Wednesday said to the human, in her most reassuring voice. It stared up at her with a gaping mouth and said nothing. Maybe it was in shock?

“Listen,” she said, wading the few steps over into the waters that belonged to 290, not the House, “these are dangerous seas! And that’s a very tiny… boat… thing. So you need to go back to your kind and tell them to not sail in this direction.”

It didn’t respond. Sighing, Wednesday put it gently down in the water. “You don’t understand, do you?” she said. “I might as well tell you how to build bigger boats. Use wood, not skin. Perhaps start by burning out some tree trunks, since you have fire. You’re not going much of anywhere without a sail.” She switched over to the more slow, cheerful voice she hoped the human at least partially understood. “Very dangerous! Don’t sail around here!”

As if galvanized by her voice, the human started and began rapidly paddling away. Wednesday heaved a sigh of relief. “Maybe that will help with the humans getting caught up in the Border Sea.”

 

***

 

“They’re showing sudden advancements in boat-building, aren’t they?”

Wednesday nodded. “They’re both more intelligent and more stupid than I thought. They’re using their better boats to sail right back into the Border Sea, trying to harpoon giant whales. One of my merchant ships was actually attacked, can you imagine? And they’ve begun putting rather… fanciful depictions of me, I think, on the front of their ships. As if that would do anything.” She looked pleadingly at Saturday. “But I didn’t mean it, Saturday. I was trying to do my job.”

Saturday sighed. “I know you were. Increase the patrols on 290’s entry point—I’ll send you ten more sorcerers to help knit up the gap.”

Wednesday’s lines of worry blossomed into a smile. “Thank you, Saturday. I knew you’d help me.”

Saturday hastily looked down at her paper again. “Yes, well. It’s simpler to help you do your job than turn this into a matter for another meeting. I’m sick of meetings.”

Wednesday laughed. “Aren’t we all?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor note: I assumed here that while the Days still held the most power on their respective... well, days, that they were able to visit Earth on other days back before things went to Heck

There were many other things Saturday could be doing instead of tracking down Thursday on Earth (because Realm 290 is never Realm 290 anymore, it looms too large) but it was the one task on her list that took her out of her office, and it fascinated her the most. Thursday was, if possible, more stringent about obeying the laws of the Architect than she was. He was not exactly forbidden to visit Earth altogether, but it was not encouraged, and Thursday had never shown an interest in visiting before anyway. 

“I am out to everyone,” she told her Dawn on the way out, “except the Architect. If she calls, or appears, call me.”

“Even Sunday?” 

Her lips thinned. “Especially Sunday.”

Thursday’s trail was not hard to follow; the Days left a signature of energy behind them, the sheer power of the life contained within them overflowing, clear as day to the average sorcerer. Saturday was not average. She found him by mid-morning of the Friday she set out, in a forest clearing with the small troop of Denizens he took with him and something else: three cannon.

Saturday stepped out of the tree shadows, folding her wings into her back and allowing herself to be seen. “Those are not in keeping with the style of the House.”

The Architect liked the House to stay a certain way: exactly as it was when she last left it. When she returned after her travels in the Secondary Realms, she usually announced what changes she wanted to be made, what era in what Realm to copy, and everyone struggled to comply. Her most recent command had been for them to mimic a mixture of Rome and Greece, at this point many hundred years in Earth’s past. Pillars and togas were everywhere, and catapults were the limit of the Army’s technology.

A few of the Denizens started to their feet but Thursday, who leant against a tree, merely watched her. After a long moment, he answered. “I am aware, Minister.”

This was truly unusual. Sunday did not give orders often, so Saturday was Thursday’s most obvious superior. She had not thought he’d even dreamed of defying her before.

“Then why are you preparing to take them into the House? Do not lie; I know that is what you are doing.”

“I would not lie, Minister. But I shall bring them to the Great Maze; and send one of them to be copied by Grim Tuesday.”

Saturday shook her head. “Why do you disobey? You know this is not the Architect’s wishes.”

Thursday pushed himself upright. Saturday realized that his already deep-set eyes were even more swallowed by shadow, his skin bruised-looking with lack of sleep. Army Denizens needed to sleep very rarely. Saturday was beginning to grow alarmed.

“You know the House grows more vulnerable every day,” he said. “Nithlings find a dozen new points to break through. I am dividing my Denizens between the Maze and the edges of the House, and they are spread too thin. I cannot continue with just the weapons of humans some several hundred years ago.”

“It goes against the law to bring these into the House.” Saturday felt she could not say more than that; she knew things were growing strange, the House seeming weaker than it once was, but Thursday’s odd behavior was driving the point in so hard she felt like she could scarcely breathe.

Thursday looked at her. “My people are dying, Minister. I accept full responsibility for the crime. You may charge me with it at our next meeting.”

He gestured to his Denizens to move, and with fearful glances at Saturday they obeyed. Looking at Thursday, Saturday could not find a will to stop them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for the last bit... It always disappointed me that we heard all the time the Trustees were 'interfering with the Secondary Realms' but we didn't see any of that really happening, so I wanted to give a brief glimpse of what Arthur's world might have looked like if the borders between the House and the Realms were breaking down a little more.

Saturday knew that all the Days felt the absence of the Architect at the back of their minds, a constantly open wound, but she was sure her loss was the greatest. She had been first, after all; second only to the Architect, first among all creations. 

Another of her calls to Sunday falls through, ringing dying into silence, one of Monday’s half-trained operators coming back onto the line nervous. “They don’t seem to be picking up,” he said. “Should I try again?”

“Don’t bother.” Her letters have not reached him, except those she sent by Not-bird—those have been pointedly returned, opened and read but without reply. Flaunting his ability to do nothing if he wanted to, let the House fall into Ruin. He, in his Gardens, would be untouchable. 

Her knuckles whitened on her Key. Untouchable—she would see about that. And perhaps they would not be his Gardens for much longer. 

“There have been more than three dozen cases of interference with the Secondary Realms within the past century,” her Noon commented, leafing through what reports had made it through the faulty mail system. “At least, those are the ones we know about. Feverfew is making raids on Earth seas, Drowned Wednesday has caused a flood or two… Tuesday is said to be making unfair deals with humans and collecting art and valuables as payment. Monday’s lower Denizens have begun to raid Earth for their tea because the Border Sea ships it so rarely now—”

“Noon.”

He knew to stop immediately when he heard that tone in her voice. “Yes, Min—Superior?”

“Do I look like I care?”

“No, Superior.”

“I don’t. The lower parts of the House can strip the Earth bare; what matters is the Upper House.” In fact, considering how much the Architect had fawned over those weak creatures, she would enjoy seeing the Earth stripped bare. “We have work to do, Noon.”

“Yes, superior.”

 

***

 

Arthur poured cereal into a bowl, half-listening to the news. 

“—and hundreds of wannabe Captain Ahabs have flocked to boats in hopes of glimpsing, and perhaps capturing, this massive whale. A clever hoax? A sign of the End Times? We’ll get back to that after this message from our sponsors.”

“Afraid that angels will invade _your_ neighborhood?”

Arthur tuned it out for a bit, worrying about school. Michele came downstairs, made some comment about local weird channels, and switched it over to more serious news; a report on the art museum thefts over the past year. “I really don’t know how to describe them,” said the worried-looking security guard being interviewed. “One of them was real tall and scowled and the other looked like a hunchback gremlin. They were both very polite, though. Tall guy kind of had a Scottish accent. I tried to follow them, but he picked up a truck and threw it at me—”

Michele turned the TV off.

“Hey, come on,” Arthur’s dad said, wandering into the room. “I want to be educated in current affairs. Arthur, what’s going on?”

Arthur shrugged, his mind on other things. “I don’t know. End of the world or something.”


End file.
